This Burns My Heart Page 0,117

handouts. He has nothing of his own. Remember, he was once the richest man in Won-dae-don.”

When Soo-Ja was a little girl, and her father owned the biggest factory in their town, he would have her sit next to him when visitors—relatives real and fake, friends of friends—came asking for money. They’d plead their cases, explaining their reasons for needing help. Some claimed they had a daughter getting married, when in fact they had a mistress on the side. Or they talked about funeral costs for an in-law, when what they wanted was a holiday trip to Japan. A few had real reasons, like medical bills for a child, or the costs of sheltering a parent. Soo-Ja and her father would listen attentively. Then, her father would turn to her and ask her to make a decision. He already knew who to give money to and who not to give money to, of course, but he made her feel like she was the one with all the power. Soo-Ja had inherited both her father’s compassion and his ability to spot liars. They always came to the same conclusion, and it was usually the right one. And when she bestowed the money, the supplicant would kneel in front of her and call her sage. And so she had spent her childhood.

By the time Soo-Ja reached Daegu, he had already passed away. As she sat in the train, staring out at the open fields, she wept—she’d been denied parting words, or a last look. For most of the journey, she prayed for the train to keep running forever, never stopping, never dropping her off, never reaching its destination at all.

Later, during the half-hour trip from the train station to her brother’s house, she sat in the back of the taxicab with her body feeling frozen—it was the longest half hour of her life. The taxi dropped her off in front of a series of huge apartment complexes, an entire maze of them, all identical, washed white, with rows of small balconies; each building was set apart only by a giant three-digit number painted on the side. This was the new Daegu, rising upward.

Soo-Ja knocked on her brother’s door, and he himself answered it. When she saw the expression on his face, she felt a lump in her throat. She took in the commotion behind him, the grieving women chanting and crying, arms rising and falling madly in the air. Soo-Ja and her brother did not say anything at all. They simply stood by the door and embraced, and when she felt his warm body against hers (he had their father’s build), she felt her face flood with tears.

Soo-Ja ended up staying in Daegu much longer than she’d anticipated. Her days were busy, since there was always someone to visit with: distant relatives, friends of the family. They all wanted to see her. They said being around her was like being around him—the same smile, the same warmth. So she met with everyone who wanted to meet her, going to visit folks all over Daegu, and becoming her family’s public face, while her mother stayed at home, retreating into her room, her pipe, and her silence.

Min and Hana came for the funeral, but left almost immediately. Min told Soo-Ja someone had to look after the hotel, and she couldn’t argue with that. Soo-Ja didn’t know what was happening with her husband and her daughter at that point. She didn’t know they’d already decided what they were going to do. Later, when Soo-Ja would tell people about what they did to her, they’d always ask, Why did you stay in Daegu so long? Why did you give them the opportunity? This is really your fault, can’t you see?

Soo-Ja liked it in Daegu; she liked the fact that everyone around her was mourning. They were all in love with loss—her brothers, her mother, and she. She liked the fact that their meals magically appeared, courtesy of countless friends, who brought the food not on aluminum or plastic plates, but on real tableware and silverware. She liked the fact that for as long as she was there, she could simply burst into tears at random times, and no one took pity on her, as if it were normal to start weeping while doing the dishes. At night, Soo-Ja read and reread the long, beautiful letters her father wrote her, the blue ink stained by tears, rendered nearly unreadable.

My dear Soo-Ja,

I have not heard from you in a